Prologue
The Past
It was almost time. Colin looked down at his watch, then up to the window facing the street. Where was she?
The vinyl booth crinkled as he shifted his weight. Behind him, several waitresses laughed.
He worriedly thumbed the slick cover of the promotional matchbook a waitress had given him. The diner was celebrating some kind of event. He didn’t know what, since he hadn’t paid attention to anything she said.
Today was going to be huge, and he had no thoughts for anything other than Blanca. She still wasn’t there.
“Blanca,” he whispered to himself, “it’s not like you to be late.”
Where could she be?
Colin peered out the large, sunny windows again, squinting. Something caught his eye. What was that? Who was that?
There, going slower than the rest of the traffic, was a car he didn’t recognize. But what he did recognize were the faces within.
Her, laughing.
Him, leaned forward, his middle finger held high as he locked gazes with Colin.
Blanca, and ...
The car shot forward, rocketing out of Colin’s view, but not out of earshot.
He recoiled in horror when he heard the unmistakable sound of squealing tires and crunching metal. Car horns blaring. And screams.
Again and again he heard the screams. Her screams.
Those sounds would haunt him forever. Her face would haunt him forever.
And he would never be the same.
Chapter One
Present Day
THE BUZZ OF THE ALARM came too soon. Sabela cracked open her eyes and stared at the red numbers on the display. It was just after seven a.m.
Wrapping up a double shift at the diner the night before meant that seven a.m. might as well have been no sleep at all, but she knew she had to get up. Another fun-filled day of double shifts awaited her. It was time to get to it.
Slowly, she climbed out of bed and willed her limbs to cooperate. She could already tell it was going to be the kind of day where coffee was a must. Were intravenous caffeine drips a thing? If only.
Sabela felt as if she hadn’t slept in years, and the way her muscles protested every time she moved, she felt more like one hundred and two than twenty-four years old. But elderly or not, she had responsibilities to attend to.
She stumbled into the kitchen and hit the switch to start the drip of the coffee machine. Across the hall came the faint sounds of excited screaming filtering through the closed door to her brother’s room. Flickering light underneath the door crack confirmed the TV was on.
More sports? Whether it was the latest edition of “24/7 SportsTalk” or some other sports-related show, Trevor had an addiction. It was cutting into his sleep, and Sabela wasn’t happy about it. It was almost as bad as the online shopping habit he’d developed.
That addiction was recent. It would have to be, since they’d never been able to afford such a thing before … before the mysterious “He” came into their lives. Whoever “He” was. Their anonymous benefactor.
Sabela shook her head. It was early, and she was too groggy to indulge in that incessant, and pointless, guessing game.
She made her way into the small bathroom she shared with Trevor. In the tiny apartment, it often felt claustrophobic with the two of them there, but there was no helping it, not now anyway. Maybe soon, though, if the mysterious “He” continued his support, and if Sabela continued to accept his offerings.
She shouldn’t complain about the small bathroom. How much worse was the cramped space for Trevor? At least she got out of the place during the day, but he had hardly left the house since he’d been put in his wheelchair. Claustrophobic for her must be downright oppressive for him.
On the bathroom wall was a calendar. Today, marked with a bright red “PT,” was Trevor’s at-home physical therapy. Maybe her double shift wasn’t such a bad thing after all. She should be glad to get away. Trevor’s therapy sessions were a trial, to say the least.
Sabela had no idea how the nurses put up with Trevor’s surly attitude, crude mouth and pessimism. He didn’t seem to be interested in improving his condition no matter how hard Sabela tried to encourage him, and he didn’t listen to the nurses, either.
After carefully covering her hair, she took a quick shower, and returned to her room. She stared at the meager contents of her closet. Then she looked over her shoulder at her sewing machine. The dress that rested on it had been worth the late night hours she’d spent working on it.
Sabela had saved weeks’ worth of tip money to afford the right fabric, and had spent even longer developing the design. She sometimes wondered if working on the dress after exhausting double shifts at the diner was a smart use of her time. The truth was that design fed her soul and did more to invigorate her than a few minutes of sleep ever could have done.
Even if she could only devote twenty minutes to her heart’s work, she rarely missed a night. Last night she’d almost fallen asleep trying to finish the dress, but it had been worth it. The project wasn’t finished yet, but it was already beautiful.
She crossed the room and picked up the half-assembled garment. She held it up against herself and looked in the full-length mirror on the back of her door. In her opinion, it was her best work yet.
It had a low slit up the side of the asymmetrical skir
t that ensured it would show plenty of leg. The scoop-necked collar connected to the solitary strap that crossed only one shoulder.
Sabela hadn’t put it on yet, but she knew the high-end, red, slinky material was guaranteed to hug and showcase every curve of her body. Too bad she didn’t have anywhere to wear it, and no one to show her body off to.
She didn’t have time for daydreaming. She laid the dress near her sewing machine and returned to staring into her closet.
She could just wear her restaurant uniform, but Sabela prided herself on looking good at all times. Even though she would just have to change before her shift, Sabela pulled on her favorite pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shrug sweater she had designed herself.
The jeans were fashionable, and had holes cut in several strategically placed positions around her shapely legs. Trash was in. Or at least, hot legs were. She grinned.
The short-sleeve sweater she pulled off the hanger was a pattern she modeled after last season’s trend of shrug sweaters. It had taken quite a while to figure out exactly how to do the stitching right so that the folds around her neck fell in a pleasing way, but she was delighted with the end result. Plus, it was in a flattering shade of creamy vanilla that illuminated the delicate golden brown tones of her skin.
Best of all, since she’d made it, the outfit had cost less than twenty dollars. She allowed herself a brief, rare moment of feeling proud of herself. It felt good.
Sabela carefully pulled the front of her hair back with a clip so that it would stay out of her face. There was a part of her that was tempted to cut her hair short, but she remembered how much her mother talked about liking her longer, wavy locks. It was a nod to her mother’s memory that she kept it how it was. Besides, she could always arrange it into a sleek bun if she wanted to dress up.
Satisfied that she looked as good as she was going to get, she made her way down the hall and reluctantly rapped on Trevor’s door.
The interaction should last less than a minute if she was lucky. Unfortunately, Sabela was rarely lucky these days. She took a deep breath and waited for the door to open. It didn’t.
“What do you want?” The voice on the other side of the door sounded annoyed and snide. The man Trevor had become was nothing like the aloof but kind brother she remembered from her youth.
“I’m getting ready to go to work. Can I come in?” she asked.
There was nothing but a snorted reply. Sabela figured that was acknowledgment enough.
As soon as she opened the door, the unsavory smells hit her. It was clear that Trevor hadn’t bathed in several days, and she knew there was moldy food on dirty plates buried under the piles of clothes covering the floor.
He could have kept his room clean, if he wanted to. She asked him repeatedly to pick up after himself. He ignored her, and his slovenly ways seemed to be getting worse. She wished she could afford to hire a housekeeper.
Even after the recent windfall thanks to her unknown benefactor, Sabela and her brother remained on a strict budget. She needed to be smart about her cash, because she had no idea when it would dry up. A housekeeper was a luxury she couldn’t justify.
She’d have to clean up Trevor’s room herself, as she always did. Maybe she’d have the energy after work tonight.
Trevor stared at the television, pointedly ignoring her. His hair was clumpy, unkempt, and his face ashy and dull. He wore only a grubby white tank top and a pair of equally grubby, ancient sweatpants.
Once upon a time, his arms and legs were muscular, but now they were shriveled to half their former size. And while his limbs had shrunk, his belly had grown, distended unnaturally, no longer flat.
He lay sprawled on his bed, not caring about his appearance in any way. Sabela knew that if she suggested he clean up, and if she offered to help him, he’d be livid and tell her to get the hell out.
It hurt Sabela to see her brother like this, but she’d learned to avoid dwelling on it.
In the corner of the room were a stack of mail order boxes that hadn’t been there yesterday morning.
“What’s all that?” she asked, pointing to the stack.
“None of your business,” Trevor grumbled, still not meeting her eye. “It’s mine.”
His response was typical. If it hadn’t been the only way to make him happy, Sabela never would have put extra money in his bank account. Trevor’s shopping addiction was bad and getting worse.
“Trevor —”
“Fine, you want to know?” He scowled. “It’s boxes.”
Sabela’s eye twitched, but she said nothing more. It was always the same, especially now that Trevor was constantly asking for more money. His spending habits had gone through the roof and, for a man who didn’t work or leave the apartment, he had acquired a taste for expensive gadgetry.
“The therapist will be here soon to do your physical therapy. Can you please try to cooperate today?” she asked.
“I don’t need any damn physical therapy.”
“She’s got the key, so she’ll let herself in.” Sabela refused to be drawn into the same old argument. It was useless.
“Whatever,” he said.
Sabela was half-turned, intending to leave when she heard him call out her name.
“Hey, Sabela, is that something new?” Trevor pointed at her sweater.
Sabela plucked at the bottom hem. It wasn’t beyond Trevor to make fun of her, and she had put a lot of work into this design. It would sting to hear him insult her.
“Just something I designed from last season,” she said. Sabela braced herself for the inevitable snide remark.
“It’s nice,” Trevor said.
Sabela let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and smiled hesitantly. Maybe the brother she once knew wasn’t completely gone after all. “Thanks.”
“But if you’re looking to grab a guy’s attention, you’ve got a show more of your tits,” he said. The moment was clearly over. “Shut the door.”
Sabela’s cheeks burned, but she refused to rise to his bait. She was used to it.
She had just gotten all of her things together when she heard a knock at the door. It was unlike the therapist to be this early. No one ever came early to work with Trevor.
Sabela opened the door. It wasn’t his therapist. It was a man … a man in a suit.
Big and burly, he looked like a bouncer at a club, a high-class bouncer wearing a pricey suit. Sabela knew from the fabric, seam work and cut that it was expensive.
“Sabela Vaughn?” he asked. It didn’t really sound like a question.
“That’s me,” she said as her heart sank.
After two months of having all her bills paid on time, she hadn’t expected a debt collector to come calling. Her mind raced frantically, wondering which bill she’d overlooked. It must be a hell of a bill if their collectors dressed this well.
It would be okay, she told herself. She could cover whatever she’d missed, thanks to her unknown benefactor.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked, trying to sound confident.
“Yes, Miss.” His voice was flat and neutral. “Your presence is requested.”
Chapter Two
FROM INSIDE THE SUIT JACKET, the man withdrew a crisp, sealed envelope.
Her presence was requested? What did that mean? Was that a polite way of saying she’d been served? Great, an overly polite process server. Just her luck.
Sabela took the envelope. In the top left corner was a calligraphic M. The envelope was textured, made of heavy, quality paper.
She turned the envelope over and peeled back the flap. There was a single piece of paper folded inside.
Mr. Morgan requires a meeting to discuss the payment of your obligation. Please secure your passport. You will need to leave immediately.
Perplexed, she looked up at the man. “Passport?”
“Yes, Miss. We need to leave as soon as possible.”
She read the note again. She focused in on “payment of you
r obligation.” Did that mean a loan? What loan? She didn’t have a —
Could this be from her anonymous benefactor? No mention had been made about her needing to pay him back.
She had to admit to herself, however, that she’d always understood that no one ever got something for nothing. Everyone knew that for a fact, especially where she was from, the rough part of the city. Everyone here knew the truth.
The other shoe was getting ready to drop. How naïve she’d been to think that the benefactor’s money was anything more than a debt that needed to be repaid.
And calling him a benefactor was a misnomer. She’d have to think of something else to call him from now on. Like loan shark.
Slowly, as if the man in the suit was a bear ready to maul her, she backed away from the door. “I need to call work.”
“That has already been taken care of.”
She shuddered. Creepy. “Then I need to tell my brother what’s happening. How long am I going to be gone?”
The fact that she was being asked to bring her passport made her surmise that she’d be gone longer than a couple of hours. How would Trevor take care of himself without her help?
The suited man frowned. “I assure you all arrangements have been made for your brother’s care. We need to go now.”
“Do I need to pack anything?” She was trying to do anything to stall and gather her thoughts.
“Your passport is all you need,” he said.
He wasn’t giving her any time, that much was clear. The disgruntled expression on his face said he was losing patience with her.
“I can’t just go somewhere with you. I don’t know you. You’re a stranger,” she said. “This is … bizarre.”
“But you know Mr. Morgan,” the man said. “He’s provided you with a great deal of assistance, so he’s not a stranger to you. And he’s the one who sent me to collect you. Here.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled a small bundle of papers from the interior breast pocket.
Sabela took the papers and stared at them dumbly.
“Do you remember signing those?” the man asked.
She flipped the pages, each one of them sporting her signature at the bottom and a scattering of initials here and there. She swallowed hard, and nodded. “Yes, I remember.”